Humid and bare, desolate as new grave,
At the foot of a tall cliff, hung with ice,
By Strymon’s gloomy waters, for full twice
A hundred days and nights, singing he wept;
Like a nightingale cruelly bereft
Of all her young ones in the poplar grove,
With nothing for her any more to love,
Or live for, but to gaze upon her nest,
And mourn, the night through, all she once possessed,
Till overflows the wood where she complains,